


If I Had You

by amyt1984



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyt1984/pseuds/amyt1984
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a decade after the Glamnation tour. Adam has achieved artistic, commercial, and financial success; but, there still seems to be a piece missing. An epiphany one night helps Adam realize that ten years of seemingly bad decisions in regards to life and love might just have led to the best one he has ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been writing this story for almost 2 years, and still writing. It is a long LONG narrative journey. I hope someone will get as much enjoyment out of reading it as I do out of writing it. Of course, this is fanFICTION. So no crazy hallucination on my part that any of this is, has been, or will ever be real. All of this is made up -- just crazy ramblings in my own brain. But I love the pairing. Their chemistry is worth something. 
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated. Will determine if I decide to post more.

ADAM'S POV

 

I listened, only half-interested, to the formalities that were going on around the table. There were eight – maybe 10 people – in attendance. A couple of them, I recognized. Most, I did not. The banter occurred primarily between the two I knew to be in charge – one on my behalf, the other for the label. I had to consciously restrain myself from shaking my head in disgust.

 

Even after 10 years in the recording industry, the bullshit that I had grown accustomed to never ceased to amaze me. For most of the conversation, they conversed back and forth like I wasn't even there.

 

But I mean, really? Come on. The Tenth Anniversary of the Glamnation tour?

 

It had obviously not occurred to any one of them to ask for my input. They must think I couldn't have any thing of value to contribute to the itinerary of my own goddamn life. Well, I guess even after a decade, I will just continue to curse the fact that some things never fucking change.

 

*****

 

And so, it goes.

 

Somewhere along my journey to the top of the entertainment world, I fell out of love with fame.

 

Don't get me wrong. When I was a young star, she seduced me and reeled me in. The only woman I ever loved. She was always tantalizing; constantly alluring. She satisfied me in a way that no human lover ever could. Sometimes, it seemed like my sanity depended on what she had to give. But recently – maybe even for the last couple of years – I have been slowly suffocating. I thought I knew her, but we have grown apart. I guess I just want different things.

 

I know the audience can't see the heavy shackles and chains I drag onstage with me every time I perform, but I just can't deal with the fact that what once were post-performance highs are now little more than mood swings affected by an inherent lack of artistry and inspiration.

 

My fans deserve more than that. Fuck. I deserve more than that.

 

I kind of feel bad that my outlook has gotten so bleak, but I guess that's what happens when so many people who swear they've got your back trample their own good intentions into oblivion. Unfortunately, I've learned all there is to know about the ugly side of greed. My success hasn't come without a price.

 

At one time, my worldview was positive and hopeful. The glass was never half empty; always half full. But that was at a time when I was just another American Idol superstar. Than, at some point, I became an idolized commodity. My fame hasn't come without a disheartening check of reality.

 

I mean, how could I have known that I would have to learn to pick and choose my relationships even more carefully than I already did? Of course, moving one lover after another into my home and my heart have made me wary of opening up to anyone that could be more than a one-night stand. My love life has not come without heartbreak.

 

*****

 

There aren't many people who even know who I am anymore. I am so fucking thankful for the ones who do: Mom, Dad, Neil, Cassidy, Monte, Tommy Joe....

 

And, oh my fucking God, where would I be without Tommy Joe?

 

There's no secret that it was lust at first sight for me, but against my better judgment at the time, I listened to whoever advised me to bury those thoughts beneath the guise of a good business decision. Still, from the minute he walked on to my audition stage, I felt our chemistry – a silent understanding that emanated from his soul to my own.

 

How do you ignore something like that?

 

God knows I have tried.

 

Now, I have grown to depend on him for so many things.

 

He is my best friend, my creative partner, my reality check. Sometimes it is hard for me to discern where one of us ends and the other begins. I don't know why, but he keeps me grounded. I mean, fuck. He's been my rock all this time.

 

I guess I can't blame anyone for wondering where we draw that line. But is it really their business anyway? I know our undefined relationship has left a long trail of clueless souls in the dark.

 

But even losing that choreographer and several jealous boyfriends over misunderstandings about Tommy and me isn't enough to make me care.

 

I just know that I can't even see myself without him.

 

I am sure he knows how I feel.

 

Doesn't he?

 

But as I look inward, I'll be damned if I can actually remember the last time I did so much as express my appreciation for his presence in my life. It's so much easier to assume he can read my mind.

 

But I suppose, if he could read my mind, we would have crossed that line by now. I mean, how many times can two people share the same bed and NOT have sex?

 

That's obviously a rhetorical question, because Tommy and I have the record on that.

 

Okay, so some of the times we have been in the same bed together, we were drunk and oblivious; others we just crashed together in total exhaustion. There were even a few nights in which we decided that each other's company would be better than no company at all. I guess those moments are the ones where my desire to be with him on the next level screamed at me the loudest.

 

I still have to laugh at anyone who blames me for bending Tommy's straight. Hell, he settled into the androgynous world of bisexuality a long time ago. Probably even before I was aware that he had crossed that line.

 

There have been times when we were close to consummating our relationship, but there were always too many people; too many many naked bodies; too many drugs and too much booze between us.

 

When you have that much sexuality within the confines of a pair of tour buses, such things are bound to happen. I am surprised I remember them at all, but I guess I can admit they were fun. They filled a need I suppose I had at the time – when young pretty boys with too much eyeliner and too little discernment made my dick hard.

 

God, that was so long ago.

 

Now, do I even recall what real sex – fucking with intent – is really like? It has been so long since I have actually felt a physical AND an emotional connection for the same person at the same time.

Well, with the exception of Tommy Joe.

 

This thought makes me gaze lovingly at the warm body laying next to me.

 

I can feel my heart swell when I do. Wrapped up in the cocoon of my comforter, Tommy sleeps peacefully, completely oblivious to my inner monologue. I can't blame him for crashing out. After all, it's after 2? 3? maybe 4? in the morning. I don't even know.

 

The DVD of old concert footage we were watching was over a long time ago.

 

I realize I could get used to the warmth of Tommy in my bed every single night – waking up to his big, chocolate brown eyes would never get old. Not ever.

 

I know what Lane would say to this series of thoughts: 'Forget it Adam. Don't mix business with pleasure.' Then, some other member of my management team would chime in an agreement.

 

And why? Do they know me better than I know myself? Would I really sell less records or lose fans if I decided to just be with Tommy Joe? And if I did, would I even fucking care?

 

Then, all of a sudden, it hits me. So. Fucking. Hard.

 

It really isn't anyone's decision but mine. I mean maybe it was before, when I was fresh off the American Idol stage and no one knew if I would take off or implode. But now, I have enough platinum certifications on my walls and awards on my shelves to shut anyone right the hell up.

 

Part of me is rabid to wake Tommy up. To shake him into some kind of coherent consciousness. To press our lips together before any second thoughts or hesitations worm their way into my brain. To make him know I want him forever. To have forever start right fucking now.

 

But the other part of me is content to just watch him sleep. To feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest within my own. To soak in the beauty of his face. To trace the lines of his magnificent features with my eyes and ghosted fingers.

 

Time has been kind to Tommy Joe. Of course, age and experience have added a crease or two to his forehead. There are a couple of lines etched into the corners of his eyes. But his beauty still overwhelms me. His high cheek bones, his silky pale skin, and his pouty pink mouth are always what draw me in. I realize I am awestruck right at this moment. Even after all these years I have looked at him. Studied him. Memorized him. Again and again and again. So why do I feel almost giddy right now? Like I am really seeing him for the first time?

 

I actually feel my pulse begin to quicken, and I swear that the beating of my heart is loud enough to break through any depth of sleep that has a hold on the man beside me.

 

But still, he does not stir.

 

Every bit of love I have ever repressed, ignored, or boxed up regarding him seems to be bubbling to the surface all at once, and I actually feel like I could explode. A tsunami of mixed emotions rushes through me. There is love there. Respect. Desire. All kinds of feelings, exploding simultaneously. I feel it in my heart. In my head. In my groin.

 

I am high on Tommy Joe.

 

I now realize he has been my drug of choice all along. A constant pick-me-up. A consistent buzz. A habit I could never, ever get over, even if I tried. And here he is, lying next to me, coursing through my veins like a legal overdose.

 

He is everything I want. Everything I need. But nothing – up until now – that I have ever allowed myself to have.

 

The personal epiphany I am experiencing is breathtaking and nerve-wracking all at the same time, and it scares the shit out of me.

 

I can barely fathom him not feeling the same way, but I know I must face the fact that that is a very real possibility. I have buried my own feelings for more than a decade; but what about his? Is knowing he doesn't have any feelings for me better than not knowing at all?

 

I reach out to caress his arm. I feel him move slightly, reacting to my slight touch, and watch him bury his flawless face deeper into one of my pillows. He sighs, almost as if blissfully content.

 

I don't know that I have ever seen anything more beautiful.

 

I spend the next few minutes talking myself down – calming my heartbeat; slowing my pulse; quieting my desire to shout out loud. My need for sleep is getting the most of me. I know the opportunity to talk to Tommy is just a sunrise away. It will be so much better for both of us if I am awake, alert, and coherent when I do. There will be no way for me to truly express how I feel if I am an exhausted, blubbering idiot.

 

I consciously snuggle as near to him as I can without actually disturbing him enough to wake him up. He shifts in his sleep, and he somehow settles even closer to me than he already was. It feels so natural; so right.

 

I close my eyes and all I see are images of him.

 

So, on this night, as I drift off to sleep, I realize that ten years of seemingly bad decisions in regards to life and love just might have led to the best one I have ever made.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Tommy's reaction be the next morning when he wakes up and finds out what kept Adam up practically all night?

TOMMY'S POV

When I woke up this morning, I knew it was Adam beside me. It felt like him. It smelled like him. It sounded like him.

Yeah, so? Is it really all that fucked up that I can recognize him just from the way that he breathes? Well, that and, like, I knew where I had fallen asleep last night. 

We were chilling on his big motherfucking monster bed watching concert footage from God-knows-when, and I had simply drifted off. He seemed a little restless last night, like he had something on his mind. But hell, he always has something on his mind. His ability to multitask in his brain is fucking insane. I'm not like that. I have, like, a one-track mind. I can only focus on one thing at a time. Food, if I'm hungry. Beer, if I'm thirsty. Sex, if I'm horny. And that's all, really. It's a good thing I am so simple. Not complicated, like Adam. I suppose that is why we balance each other so well.

But still, he seemed a little more absorbed than usual. I fucking hate it when I can't read him. He is, like, my best friend, after all. Has been for ten years now.

Wait a minute. Who am I kidding? He is more than my best friend. More like my life line. I mean, fuck. Would I even have half a goddamn life without him?

No. Probably not. Not even a fucking clue.

Hell, I have my own place, but everyone thinks I live here. I have my own car, but I'm never behind the wheel. I have my own washer and drier, but half of my damn dirty laundry is, like, strewn all over his house. I think I even have more groceries in his refrigerator than my own. 

Oh well. All. Beside. The. Point.

I remember at some point last last night (or early this morning, I don't really know) feeling Adam finally – fucking finally – settle down in the bed. It seemed like he snuggled up to me a little more than he normally did, and I was going to say something, but he seemed so, like, intent on not waking me up and shit. I didn't want to disappoint him. And he was warm. And really fucking comfortable to be up against. Funny how I didn't really mind at all. I always sleep better next to him. Fucking figures.

Anyway, now that my eyes are open for the morning, and I have concluded that I won't be going back to sleep anytime soon, my thoughts turn quickly to the aching in my bladder. The four empty beer bottles on the nightstand beside the bed probably have something to do with that. Unfortunately, in order to get out of the bed, I have to, like, actually extract myself from Adam's vice-like grip. In doing so, I am bound to wake him up. I move cautiously.

But, yep. I was right. His eyes flutter open.

“Morning, Glitterbaby,” he mumbles at me sleepily.

“Morning, Babyboy,” I answer. I can't help but smile. It has been awhile since we have used our nicknames for one another.

I wait for him to say something else. Or at least for him to quit clinging to me like he is afraid I am going to get up and never come back. But all he does is stare into my eyes. I can't help but return his gaze. As usual, I am quickly overwhelmed by the way his blue eyes, like, transfix me and shit. Even after ten years, the power of the way he looks into my soul never gets old.

If my fucking bladder was not screaming at me, I would be content to stay where I am. But nature always calls.

I pull away and sit up with a groan. Clear my throat. Scratch my balls. Just my standard morning routine. As I stand up, Adam reaches up and grabs ahold of my tshirt.

“Wait,” he says. “Don't go.”

“I gotta rock this piss,” I reply, jerking playfully out of his grasp. “I'll be right back.”

Usually, once I get out of Adam's bed in the morning, I rarely go back. It just makes things seem, like they are too real, you know? But for some reason, this morning, I feel compelled to return. The look on his face after I crawl back under the comforter tells me I have made the right decision. He obviously has something on his mind, and it seems directed at me.

Is he pissed? Worried? Nervous? 

I can't tell.

I quickly replay the last 24 hours we have spent together in my brain, trying to figure out what might have triggered such a look on his face.

We had eaten breakfast with Lane.  
Stopped to check out a new rehearsal space.  
Grabbed a late lunch with Leila.  
Picked up a new jacket from Cassidy.  
Ordered dinner in.  
And, ended up crashing in his bed watching a DVD.

Fuck, I have nothing.

“We need to talk,” he finally says to me.

I nod, because it was the only response I can muster. I force myself to look into his eyes, trying to find, like, some emotion I can identify or something. I mean, fuck it all. I am staring at my best friend of ten years, and I have never seen this look before. All I know is that something is wrong. I suddenly feel like I am going to throw up.

“Adam –”I start, but then stop. 

Like, what can I even say? I don't know where to begin because I have no fucking clue what is going on. But there has to be some way to get the nervous, I-really-need-to-get-something-off-my-chest look off of his face. But then, he begins to look concerned.

“Tommy,” Adam says. “What's wrong? You look scared shitless.”  
“What's wrong?” I retort. “You mean, with me? You have that look on your face, and you wonder what's up with me?”

I know I am beginning to sound a bit annoyed.

I hear him inhale sharply. Apparently, our conversation is not going as he had planned.

“Tommy,” he finally blurts out, “I love you.”

“Fuck, Adam,” I smirk, relaxing a bit. “I love you too. You're my best friend, for Christ's sake. But what the hell does that have to do with anything right now? What is going on in that head of yours?”

I can feel myself beginning to fidget.

“No, I mean I really love you,” he says again, this time with conviction. “And, I think it's time to really do something about it.”

Before I even have, like, a second to process what he is trying to say – to figure out what message he is trying to send – he is on top of me. Literally.

Pressing me into the bed.

By reflex, I spread my legs to accommodate his body. How the fuck does it fit so perfectly?

Then, his lips are on mine. 

Kissing.   
Nibbling.   
Ravishing.

His hot tongue licks its way into my mouth, and I'll be damned if I don't respond the only way I know how.

I kiss him back.

 

ADAM'S POV

When Tommy and I finally come up for air, I force myself to put a little distance between our bodies, so I can emerge from the lustful fog of desire that I know engulfs us both. It is hard – but then so is my cock – and that is the one reason I pull away. He deserves so much more than my full-on body assault. Like maybe time to breathe. Or an explanation. Or a chance to collect his thoughts. Or maybe all of the above.

It is all I can do not to manhandle him from one side of the bed to the other. To hold him down and fuck him senseless. To squeeze ten year's worth of unbridled passion into one short burst of horny sex. I want him so bad I can taste it. My entire body trembles from my desire. But I am determined to wait. I want the first time with the last person I am ever going to love to be an experience that neither one of us will ever forget. Although my dick is screaming at me to hump him like a crazed teenager, my brain – and my heart – are on board to take it slow.

I look cautiously at Tommy. I am not surprised by the 'what-the-fuck' look on his face or the actual words that follow.

“Goddamn, Adam,” he spews through panted breath. “What the actual fuck?”

I have to swallow a giggle. He looks hurt and confused and cuter than any human being should ever be allowed to look.

“'What the fuck?' about what?” I say, managing to keep a straight face. “The fact that your best friend of ten years just fucked your face, the fact that I stopped mid-kiss, or the fact that I just stepped way over that line in the first place?”

I figure answers to these questions are all on the list.

His glare tells me I am right.

“Fuck,” he starts, “I -”

“Wait, Tommy Joe,” I say, putting my finger to his lips. I can't resist tracing around his mouth. “Let me do this. I need to talk, and I really need you to listen. When I am done, you can say whatever you want and you can even beat the crap out of me if you feel like it. But please, just hear me out. This is too important to go unsaid.”

The pleading look in my eyes must reflect my intent, because he doesn't say anything else. He only nods.

So I pick a place to start and just dive in.

For the better part of an hour, he listens to everything I have to say. He listens with patience, with reverence, with acceptance. With such a focus, I know there is no place in the world he would rather be. When I pause, he just waits. When I speak, he hangs on every word. My heart aches with relief as every thought I have ever had about the two of us pours out of my mouth. I hold nothing back. When I am finished, my throat is dry, my mind is blank, and my heart is full. Now, there is nothing he doesn't know.

I watch him run his fingers through his hair and wait for him to speak. There is a sparkle in his gorgeous brown eyes. I watch the corners of his mouth turn up into a slight grin, and then he speaks the five words that change my life forever:

“I love you too, Babyboy.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy realizes that what he already has is so insignificant compared to what he is going to gain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are like pure unadulterated smut, please be patient with me. It's coming -- lots of it. 
> 
> This very loonnnggg work is part storytelling, part porn. It's the balance that brings me peace as a writer.

TOMMY'S POV

Holy crap.

If I said I was, like, ready for everything Adam laid on me today, I would be a fucking liar. I mean, when I first felt his lips slam against mine, my mind kind of went blank. And then, when he pulled away, it felt like my whole world just stopped. Talk about a shitload of feelings I didn't know I was in touch with. But is there really any way to be, like, prepared for an emotional onslaught like that?

I'm thinking, no, probably not.

I mean, Jesus Christ. It's not, like, everyday that your best friend tells you that they're in love with you. And it's certainly not everyday that you figure out that you might feel exactly the same way about him.

But isn't it just a little bit crazy that I am so fucking happy that I can't see straight? That my mouth, like hurts – actually aches – from smiling just a whole lot more than is really necessary? That a 40-year-old man can feel the same kind of butterflies in his stomach that a 15-year-old girl feels when she's just been asked to the prom? I really am gay.

On one hand, I am almost flattered because the superstar – the sex god extraordinaire – that is Adam Fucking Lambert wants to spend the rest of his life with me. On the other hand, I am purely smitten because the gorgeous, genuine man that is just Adam wants to give part of his forever to me.

For most of my life, I haven't really discovered that many things about myself that make me believe that Tommy Joe Ratliff is, like, a force to be reckoned with. I mean, there isn't much to me really. Nothing that makes me all that special. So yeah, I can play a mean bass, and I suppose I can make, like, a guitar sound pretty good too. I know I'm pretty, and I've been told I can do some pretty decent things with my mouth. I can eat tacos like a fiend, and I can tell you anything you wanna know about a horror movie made in, like, the past 50 years. But I can't work a room like Adam can. I can't bring strangers together or inspire nations or create entire movements of social change like he does. I don't have the words to spark young people or some shit, and I entirely lack the charisma that fucking follows him everywhere. I just consider myself lucky that there always seems to be enough glitter left over for me.

But when I am with him, it doesn't even fucking matter. He makes me feel like I am the most special, most important, most worthy person in the whole goddamn world. I mean, fuck. I even like who I am when I'm around him. Hell, he brought out the best parts of me, like, the very first time I met him, and he is still doing it now, ten years later. I remember him always, like, saying that you have to be in love with yourself and shit before you can love anyone else, but I have figured out that I love myself because of the way he loves me.

And yeah, that fact just, like, took on a lot more meaning based on what he told me today.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit scared. Hell, if I can admit to feeling almost giddy, I sure as fuck don't mind saying I'm nervous. I mean, not about what Adam and I are gonna do. More about how we're gonna do it, I guess.

And there are questions – so many fucking questions – running through my goddamn brain. 'Do I still need my own place?' 'When was the last time I had sex?' 'Should I call my mom?' 'Will I actually get part of his closet?' 'Will I pay half the rent?' 'Have we both been tested?' 'What is Monte going to say?' 'Can I tell Adam I fucking hate the color of his kitchen?' 'Will it still be his house?' 'Or will it be, like, ours?' 'How is he going to convince Lane that it's all about what he wants now?' 'Is this really fucking happening?'

“Fucking hell, Tommy Joe,” I actually find myself saying out loud as I sit on my couch. “Just slow the fuck down.”

Adam's words are still so fresh in my mind, but it's, like, dark outside now. And it seems like days ago that we had this conversation. Not just hours.

I look around my living room. White walls. Black framed horror posters everyfuckingwhere. Black leather couches. Black coffee tables. Black shelving filled with horror films and heavy metal CDs and books about medieval knights and monsters and shit like that. Black pillows. Black candles. Even a black velvet throw crumpled in the corner of my very black loveseat. Everything that surrounds me here is just such a sharp contrast to the shit that makes Adam's place his – the warm, rich-colored walls, the deep cherry wood, the different textures and layers of décor that he has chosen to accent the, like, ambiance of his home. 

It just doesn't make sense to me how two so very different individuals can fit together so, like, fucking perfectly like he and I do, you know. And have since the very beginning. And apparently now will, like, for the rest of our lives.

But, I realize as I pick up the tape gun and start putting my first moving box together, it just doesn't really have to make sense. Because, for some reason, it just fucking does.

We might be blazing our own trail into something new and different, but really, it's just going to be, like, more of the same. Just me and Adam. Trying to take on the entire goddamn world one day at a time. The only real difference, I suppose, is the fact that we might be doing it from our bed. And we will probably be buck naked. Like, a lot.

I smirk. My dick twitches, definitely talking an interest in that.

And I am still smiling when I realize that, like, my Halloween movie poster might not look so bad in a cherry wood frame, against the backdrop of his rich purple wall.

ADAM'S POV

It has been 48 hours, 13 minutes, and 24 seconds since Tommy sat in bed with me and listened to my soliloquy about what I wanted from him, our love, and our life. But who's counting, right?

Yeah, right.

That was also the last time I talked to him directly. The last time I actually so much as heard his voice. I called him three times yesterday, but it went straight to his voicemail every time. I waited until last night to text him. I didn't want to come across as anxious or needy, even though I will admit I am a little bit of both. Thank God he texted me back. I was beginning to freak out. He texted me again this morning, but somehow, it left me feeling a bit empty.

“Morning, Babyboy :)”

That's all he said. How is that even enough?

It's not enough for me. But I refuse to push. I know he just dealing with things in his own Tommy Joe way, and I want to be able to let him do that. He's an entirely different breed than me. He needs time and space and air all to himself to work things out. To deal. To decompress. To gather his thoughts after his best friend of ten years said something along the lines of, “Hey, guess what? I love you. Like, a lot. Like that. Let's be together. Forever. Let's fuck. Let's get married. Let's ride off into the sunset together and leave the rockstar life behind."

Yeah, I can see how maybe I was a little overwhelming. But, in my defense, he did seem to be right there with me, so his sudden lack of contact is kind of worrying me.

I mean, I know him; know what he needs and how he needs it. But he knows me too, and not talking to me is so the opposite of what I know he knows I need.

I just need him. I need his voice. I need his touch. I need his presence just to know that this is, indeed, as real as it felt two days ago. I crave his reassurance as much as I require oxygen to breathe. I mean, of course I know who I am, but his absence – even after just two days – has left a bigger void than it should. I need to be sure of who we are and what we are going to be. And there is no us when I am here and he is several suburbs away.

I force myself to get up out of bed and drag myself across my room to the bathroom. I stop and look at myself in the mirror.

Oh, shit. Big mistake.

At this point, I know I have broken every vanity rule, law, and edict known to God and man. I haven't showered in two days, so my hair is a greasy, lumpy mess. What little makeup I had on – black eye liner I think – is completely gone from my left eye and smudged beyond recognition on my right. My crumpled black tshirt and gray sleep pants also leave a lot to be desired.

Thank the gods, the stars, and the universe for privacy gates, dark curtains, and tinted windows, because if the tabloids ever got a picture of this me, it could very well end my career.

Oh yeah, funny right? Hadn't I just made the decision to bring it to a screeching halt on my own accord anyway?

Not so funny. I don't feel much like laughing.

Instead, I feel like overanalyzing everything Tommy might – or might not – be doing. Is he freaking out like me, but in a different way? Did I say too much? Or maybe too little? Did I scare him off? Did I take too big of a risk?

My head says yes; my heart says no. My reality says I had no other choice.

Text messages are just so impersonal. If he at least had picked up his phone or returned one of my calls, I might have been able to hear what I needed to hear in his voice. I could have at least heard him speak the words I so desperately needed him to say. But all I can do now is sit and wait. I don't feel like I should call him again.

I wonder if there is anything I can do to make it any better. I sure as hell know there isn't anything I can do to make it any worse.

I think maybe I should call Cassidy. But, I soon dismiss that idea and wonder if Monte could lend a better ear. With a sigh, I realize he is probably busy with the Lisa and the kids, or at the very least, he is doing something that is much more important than consoling me about a problem I have created for myself.

Or maybe it really isn't even a problem. I don't even fucking know.

Hell, Tommy Joe. Why can't you just call?

Is what you are doing right now so much more important than me? Are you out with Dave at some random club, flirting with a pretty girl? A pretty boy? Or maybe both? Are you having a bitchfest with Mia? Discussing how my entire world came crashing down on yours and you need to find a way to get out of what I made you promise? Did you decide to have a fright fest and watch all of your favorite slasher flicks in one long, two-day marathon because that reality is so much better than the one you just left? Are you holed up in your room with a joint and a beer thinking that maybe a temporary escape will make you see things more clearly when you come around?

I suppose I could cry if I let myself, but over time, I have shed plenty of tears for what could've been between Tommy and me. And now, just when I thought there would be no tears left to shed over things that could not be undone, I find myself in very unfamiliar territory. Over this, I have no control. And I don't like it. Not at all.

I crawl back into bed, physically drained and emotionally exhausted. I need a shower. I need to eat. I need...

to hear his voice.


	4. Fucking Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Adam finally consummate a relationship a decade in the making.

TOMMY'S POV

I never knew I had, like so much shit that I hardly ever use. Hell, some of it, I haven't even used once. But that has just made packing up the things I do want so much easier. For, like, the last 48 hours, I have practically ransacked every room in my house, looking for the things I think I might need at some point in the weeks or months to come. I've barely stopped to eat, sleep, and piss; I just can't wait to get back to Adam's place – my new place. Although I have managed to fill about half a dozen boxes, I'll be damned if I know what they're full of.

But I realize that none of what I have – none of what I am taking – is going to, like, make any kind of difference. Somehow, Adam knows every single thing I need. He just fucking knows, you know? It's amazing that he doesn't even have to ask. And sometimes he seems to know even before I do. And how fucked up is that?

I shudder. Goosebumps race across my body. I smirk. It's a good kind of chill to have. It's kind of awesome when, like, someone just knows you that way.

Suddenly, I can't get out of here fast enough. Everything I have wanted for a very long fucking time is waiting for me at the end of a brief car ride.

I stand in my doorway and survey what I am leaving. At some point in my life, it may have seemed like a lot; right now it doesn't seem like much. I haven't had a roommate in fucking forever, but I haven't spent a whole lot of time here alone, either. Actually, I'm hardly ever here, period. With as much time as I have been spending at Adam's lately, my own house has become a glorified storage unit. And when I realize how little I am actually taking with me, it kind of makes me see how much I can live without. Everything that has a real purpose is already crammed into my car to take with me to his house – some clothes, a couple of guitars, an old amp, my favorite posters, my music and movie collection, several pairs of creepers, and some fan gifts. The things I use and wear the most are, like, already at his house. I practically live there already.

I smile. By the end of today, it will no longer be almost.

As I get in my car and back out of my driveway, it feels, like, so surreal. I'm leaving a place that should feel so familiar and heading into a situation that should feel so new and strange. But, fuck. It feels like just the opposite. At this point, I know I'm more comfortable where I'm going than where I've been.

By the time I hit the interstate, I'm, like, flying. Fucking literally. Making a conscious effort to watch my speed has never been my forte. And tonight? Yeah, no so much. It occurs to me that maybe I should, like, text or call Adam or something to let him know I am on my way. Against my better judgment, I decide to text and drive. So, fucking sue me, okay? My message is short, sweet, and to the point: “Get ready, Babyboy. I'm on my way.”

 

ADAM'S POV

I hear my phone buzz with a text message, and I groan as I roll over to grab it off my nightstand. I don't know what compels me to even look at it: I haven't returned any calls or texts in the last two days. But every time it goes off, a short burst of hope shoots through me that maybe this call, this text is Tommy. But, the last 96 times I have picked up my phone and looked at it, I have all but slammed it back down – discouraged, depressed, and defeated. At this point, it is in my hand purely by reflex. I don't know why I continue to get my hopes up time after fucking time.

Fuck my life.

I glance at the screen, preparing for the disappointment to surge again. But this time, the text is from Tommy, and he is on his way. My stomach does an awkward somersault, and my heart leaps into my throat. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Why? Why now? After two long days?

Is he coming because he wants to? Or because he feels like he has to? Is there something he needs to say to me? Has he had an epiphany of his own?

I realize there are butterflies in my stomach. Fucking butterflies. It appears that Adam Fucking Lambert is nervous. About what, I have no clue. Maybe because he will be driving through my gate in less than 45 minutes and I look – and smell – like death warmed over.

Oh yeah. There is that. I suppose a shower wouldn't be so uncalled for, and some clean clothes might help as well. I may not be sure of much right now, but I am pretty damn positive that I don't want to open the door looking like this.

*****

By the time I hear the chime of the doorbell, I have managed to take a shower, throw on some clean clothes, and remove the shot glasses, the empty liquor bottles, and the two ice cream containers from my bedroom. Beyond that, I have no thoughts, no plans, no contemplation for what the next five minutes are even going to hold.

And, fucking hell, Tommy Joe. Did you just ring the doorbell? Really? Instead of using your key and letting yourself in like you have all other six days this week?

This small gesture has me freaking out yet again.

Somehow I manage to make it down my stairs without tripping over my own anticipation. I can't even fathom how I got to this point. And I thought I hated my life last week. But this? Now? All of a sudden, over two days time, I have morphed from a confident, cocky, composed Hollywood star to a shaky, nervous, incompetent little boy?

My hand trembles, almost uncontrollably, as I manage to disarm the security system and undo the locks. As I open the door, I am still preparing myself for whatever might – or might not – come out of Tommy's mouth when I first see his face.

“Fuck, Lambert. It's about time. This shit is heavy,” is so not what I was expecting.

And just like that, the little blonde tornado blows right past me, and I turn around to watch him set a box, a duffel bag, a case of beer, and two guitar cases in the hallway. How is possible that someone so fucking little can carry so fucking much?

The look on my face must not be the one he was hoping for, because I watch his eyes go from light to dark in two seconds flat. His smile disappears.

“Babyboy,” he starts, taking a step towards me, “What's wrong?”

I blink my eyes. That, and I close my mouth that I realize is gaping open. I start to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Adam,” he says again, looking at me with what I suppose is concern. I still can't seem to make any coherent words form.

“What is –”, I start, as my hand gestures between him and his pile of stuff, as if my body language can possibly encompass everything that is jumbled in my brain and simply NOT coming out of my mouth. “I mean, are you –”

“It's my shit,” he answers, matter-of-factly. I watch as the look on his face goes from concerned to confused to a little annoyed. “Isn't that what you –”

“Tommy,” I interrupt, “I haven't talked to you in two days. I thought –; I mean, I just figured –, I was afraid –”

“Of what?” he questions, moving closer still.

“That you had changed our mind,” I manage to finally get out. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

“Oh, Adam,” Tommy replies, as the corners of his mouth turn up slightly.

Oh my god. Is he smirking? Really?

“Adam, I was packing.”

Oh, really? His words hit me hard. Oh, shit. Apparently, I have been overreacting. Maybe just a bit.  
Okay. So maybe just a lot.

I barely hear Tommy mumble, “Lambert, you're fucking crazy, as he completely erases the gap between us.

This time, it is his lips that smash against mine.

*****

Over the years, I have pictured my first time with Tommy more times than I can even count. I've dreamed about it. I've jacked off to it. I've imagined it. But as I return his kiss this time, slowly backing him up against the wall and pressing my body against his, I realize that nothing has ever prepared me mentally or physically for how perfect we really fit together.

My lips part instantly and his tongue invades my mouth. We have kissed so many times before, but never like this. This one is for real.  
My tongue responds to his immediately. With a fervor and a need and an intent that I know is more than obvious. Tasting Tommy sends an instant message to my groin. I harden within seconds, and I moan lustfully into his mouth. It seems like it has been such a long time since my dick, my brain, and my heart have all been on the same page. The kiss we share is sensual, emotional, and carnal as fuck.

I know what comes next, but I do not hurry. Now, we have time.

Instead, I take my time, exploring his lips, his mouth, his teeth. Just letting myself get lost in the sensation of his tongue as it tangles with my own.

It's so easy to forget to breathe. We must realize this at the same time, because we pull away from each other for just a moment, gasping and laughing in spite of ourselves.

“Adam,” Tommy pants, and he finds my lips again.

I swear – to everything that is holy – that kissing anyone has never been like this. Never so intent; so demanding; so fucking hot.

He continues his assault on my mouth, and my hands move from his shoulders up his neck to twist in the blonde locks of his hair. I shift slightly between his legs and grind my thigh into his crotch. The delicious friction makes him gasp in my mouth. The thought of Tommy's hardness against me has my own dick leaping even more to attention.

Hell, we don't even have our clothes off yet, and I feel like I might explode in my pants.

Thoughts of what I want to do to him thunder through my brain, and the most basic of them spill off my lips.

“I want to fuck you so hard, Tommy Joe,” I manage to growl between the thrusts of his tongue in and out of my mouth. “You have no fucking clue what waiting for this has been like for me.”

As it turns out, though, he just might have a clue. As he breaks away briefly from our kiss, I watch with lust in my eyes as his hoodie and his tshirt are quickly thrown on the floor, revealing miles of his pale, tattooed skin. I have seen Tommy without a shirt on time and time again – in the dressing room, at the pool, during the hot, California summers – but I have never had actual permission or the standing invitation to lean over and suck on his nipple.

I seize the opportunity with grace.

I begin swirling my tongue around it in a small circle, deliberately teasing him. I venture a small tug on his nipple ring, and his entire body lurches forward in pleasure.

“Oh my God, Adam,” I hear him moan into my hair. “Please.”

The raw, wrecked tone in his voice hits me harder than I expect, and I feel a little dizzy as the blood rushes from my brain straight to my already hard cock. It surges painfully within the tight constraints of my jeans, and I realize I am now in desperate need of friction. I reach down and squeeze my balls, trying to relieve some of the immediate pressure, but my relief is short-lived. Out of nowhere, Tommy's hands are there, knocking mine out of the way, and the next thing I know, he is massaging the hard bulge through my jeans.

The sensation trumps my control and my will power betrays me. My entire body convulses, and I buck against the solid weight of his hand as I come – unbelievably hard – in my pants.

“Fuck, Tommy,” I mumble incoherently, as my body slumps against his. I shake, almost uncontrollably, as the gooey warmness spreads through my groin and he rubs me playfully through the aftershocks.

His smirk is hard to miss.

“You smug little shit,” I smile against his chest.

He doesn't stop rubbing, and I realize he must be enjoying the thought of smearing my come all over me, like lotion into my skin.

Once I regain my composure, I grab his hand and start pulling him towards the stairs.

“Come on, Tommy Joe,” I smile. “I need a shower.”

 

TOMMY'S POV

The first time I laid eyes on Adam Lambert, my knees fucking buckled. And hell, I hadn't admitted to myself that I was into guys yet at that point. But for ten years – ten fucking years – I have been mesmerized by his blue eyes, his smile, his freckles, and ,like, every other part of his entire fucking body. Talk about a decade-long cocktease.

But I'll be damned if I am even the least bit prepared for how it is to actually have him standing in front of me in all his naked glory. There is so much of him to take it. So much beauty to just, like, behold. How can I feel like I am fucking shivering and sweating all at the same time?

Being in Adam's shower is not, like, a new thing for me. I've sobered up in here, oh, at least two dozen times. Washed quite a few hangovers down the fucking drain, too. Adam also claims I have completely passed the fuck out in here once or twice while the water was, like, still running, and based on my relationship with Corona, I am inclined to believe his crazy-ass stories. But regardless of all my previous experiences in here, I have always been alone.

Now? Not so much.

At present, I have a gorgeous son-of-a-bitch all up in my space, kissing me and shit. One that is so turned on by me that I made him come once already. And in his pants, too.

I can't help myself, and I smirk again. Of course, he reads my grin, and I already know he will use my cocky confidence to his advantage.

In only a second's time, he presses me up against the shower wall, and his lips are against my neck. I have difficulty discerning between the heat of his hot, wet kisses, and the spray of scalding water on my fevered skin. The combination of the two are driving me insane with want and need.

He continues to play coyly with my desire.

It is definitely his tongue that licks a stripe from just behind my ear, down the side of my neck, and on the sensitive skin at my collarbone. Soon, he is sucking intently on the same spot, and I can feel the area begin to tingle. His mark will still be there tomorrow.

His hands are just as busy, tracing from my shoulders down to tweak my hardened nipples, and then the gradually come to rest on my hips. I can feel the small circles he is rubbing closer and closer to my groin like a fucking bolt of lightening to my nervous system.

I close my eyes with a moan and lean my head back against the cool tile of the shower. The sharp contrast of the temperature sends a chill through me, like, head to toe, and I can't help but shiver. I consciously try to still both my mind and body and just concentrate on him touching me. For an instant the light flutter of his hands stops, and I open my eyes momentarily. My gaze is welcomed by a pair of ocean blue eyes staring at me. My breath hitches. Adam always takes my breath away.

But before I can, like, even open my mouth or anything to express my thoughts, he is doing it for me.

“Fuck, Tommy Joe,” he says. “How can you be so beautiful?”

I can't even ask him the same question before his tongue is back in my mouth. The taste of Adam is just as intoxicating as his touch, and I can't even form coherent thoughts in my own fucking brain.

Somewhere between, like, one kiss and the next, I just completely succumb to the reality of Adam. It's almost like an out-of-body experience or some other fucked up shit like that. It's like I am looking down at myself, kissing him, pressed up against him, melting against his body, and I just get it.

Our connection to each other.  
Our need for one another.  
Our consolation in each other.

It's just the way we fucking are.

I let him turn around me so I am facing the tile, and I rest my forehead against the shower wall. He begins littering the nape of my neck with hot, sensual kisses, and his hands trace languidly along my arms, starting at my shoulders, continuing down past my elbows, and coming to a stop on my wrists. I press back against him as he slides both my hands above my head. The slight pressure he applies on them says I should keep them right fucking there. I have no intention, inclination, or reason to do otherwise.

I feel his knee nudge my legs apart; I am so fucking ready for this I am practically humping the wall.

I hear the telltale click of a cap, and I wait for the sensation of his finger in my ass.

He, like, surprises me yet again.

Instead of pressure between my legs, I feel the soft scrape of Adam's loofah against my skin, and as I feel him rubbing small circles of slippery soapiness on my shoulder blades, the smell that is always Adam invades the rest of my senses that are already on, like, high alert.

“God, Adam,” I practically purr. 

If I was any more fucking pliant, I would be in a puddle on the goddamn floor.

He continues to work his way down the small of my back, rubbing, massaging, and generally, just driving me nuts. And when I feel him kneading my ass cheeks and ghosting over my crack, I practically lose it.

“Jesus Christ, Adam. Please,” I manage to plead through gritted teeth. “Please, fuck me. Suck me. Finger me. Just, something.”

The words must get through to him, because I hear him groan and press into me. He is fully hard again.

The sensation of the loofah is gone, but it is replaced by Adam's finger flicking teasingly at my hole. But before I can squeak a protest at something that feels so fucking not near enough, he plunges his finger into me two knuckles deep.

Shit. It's been too fucking long. I open my mouth to beg for more, but Adam already knows what I need. He works in a second, and then, a third, finger, and he is scissoring and stretching and making me writhe against the wall.

“Oh, Tommy. You feel so fucking good,” Adam slurs, all breathy and wrecked. And, oh God, the tone in his voice. “So tight. Want to get my cock in that sweet little ass of yours. Waited so fucking long to be inside of you.”

What little air I still have in my lungs is pushed out as I rock back and forth, fucking myself on Adam's fingers.

“Yes, Adam,” I moan almost unintelligibly into the wall. “I want that. So fucking bad. Do it.”

For what I know I lack in the dirty talk department, I must make up for in the ready-and-willing category, because before I can really process the fact that his fingers are no longer there, his dick just is.

“Yes, Adam,” I hiss.

He enters me slowly. Too slowly, if you fucking ask me. My desire to be stuffed full of him is slowly devouring my will to let him set the pace. Right now, there so does not need to be a line between he and I making love and him just fucking the shit out of me. I hope that me shoving my ass back towards him gives him some kind of clue.

“Adam, I want –. I need –”

“Shhhh, Glitterbaby,” he answers, in a sexy, soothing voice that melts the last of my composure. “I know. Just feel me. Move with me. And I promise, I will take you there. I will take us both there, and it's going to be so fucking good.”

I try. Damn it, I really do. But he doesn't want me to move my hands, and my cock is so hard it hurts.

“Adam, touch me please,” I manage. I don't even care how desperate I might sound, because I really, really am. “I just want to come. Please let me come.”

I don't know if it is, like, the tone of my voice, my continued pleas, or my lustful begging, but after a few more slow and tender strokes, he decides to take mercy on me and begins thrusting with intent. My body arches to meet him thrust for thrust, and the pleasure of having Adam deep inside of me is almost more than I can handle. Although the physical part of it is setting my entire fucking body on fire, the emotional part of it is what really, like, overwhelms me. I have wanted this for so goddamn long; the desire to be with him just burned in my fucking brain. Something I had convinced myself I would never – could never – even hope to experience. But here we are, making it real. So fucking real.

And it's more than just sex. I mean, shit. I love this man. Like, a lot. I actually choke on the reality of the entire situation. I hiccup as I sharply inhale. It comes out as a practical sob.

“Tommy?” Adam asks, slowing his pace just for a moment. “Are you okay? Glitterbaby, what is it?”

“Nothing,” I reply emphatically. “Adam, don't stop. Just – fuck me, please. Harder.”

With every hard thrust he has to give, I can feel the love we share pouring off his body onto mine. I can't, like, even remember a time when I looked at sex through the perspective of my heart instead of my dick. It's a good feeling, even though I realize it's more than a little fucked up.

Thank fuck his easy pace doesn't last, and he is fucking me with purpose once again. With each snap of his hips, I am aware of his skin on mine and the spatter of water droplets between us. The minute his fingertips leave my hip and wrap around my cock, I know I will last but only seconds. 

The pressure, the ache, the need to come right the fuck now has me dizzy and lost in Adam's arms.

I am moving back and forth with his movements, fucking back onto his cock, and forward into his fist. The sensation of everything all at once engulfs me, and my whole body trembles. As I feel the pleasure start to build up in my lower back and the pressure intensify in my balls, I know I am close. The noise that spills from my gaping mouth must clue Adam in, and he jacks me faster.

“Yes, Tommy,” I hear Adam breathe out. “That's it, baby. Come for me.”

My orgasm hits me with such force, I am almost not prepared. “Adam!” I cry, as I rock up into his grip. Suddenly, I erupt and spurt wave after wave of hot come all over his hand and against the shower wall.

I feel him give me three more erratic thrusts and hear a string of incomprehensible, jumbled words pouring out of his mouth. Things like, “Oh, God” and “fuck, yeah” and “so good.”

And then I feel it – the hot jolt of Adam's come spreading out deep within me, warming me inside and out.

For a few minutes, Adam and I just stand here, enveloped by our post-sexual high, the steam from the shower spray, and the stark realization that we really are together. For fucking real.

This isn't just another dream that one of us will wake up from; it isn't, like, a ten-minute fantasy that will end up as a lone handjob; it isn't a short onstage interaction that will leave both of us with a bad case of blue balls. It is real. It is reality. It is our future.

 

ADAM'S POV

Right now, the entire essence of my being is completely and utterly wrapped up in the gorgeous, angelic being that is Tommy Joe Ratliff. Physically? I can honestly say I don't know if I have ever been this satisfied. Mentally? I don't know if I have been in a happier place. Emotionally? I don't know if I ever believed I could feel this complete.

Ever since he walked through my door last night with the contents of his life crammed into a couple of boxes, I swear on my fucking life that my entire future has played in a continuous loop right in front of my eyes. I will never, ever have to come home to an empty house again. I will always have someone to accompany me to those endless charity events. I won't have to worry that the appetizer I really want to order serves two. I will always have someone to yell to when the roll of toilet paper runs out. I won't have to rely on my lifeless pillow to cuddle and reassure me through the night unless I just need some time to myself. I will never have to be alone again.

This particular realization is the one that wraps me up in a tight embrace and sends a feeling of warmth throughout my entire state of consciousness. This. This is what finding your soulmate is really all about.

Of course, there are some concessions I am willing to make as well: This is our house now, and I don't want Tommy to ever feel like it isn't has place too. I am committed to learning the difference between Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, and Jason Voorhees. I am willing to have to wash the sheets a lot more often. I am prepared to make Corona a regular part of the weekly grocery bill and make sure there is room in the refrigerator to keep it cold. I am willing to consider that Mexican cuisine is one of the five basic food groups, and I might even try my hand at making Tacos myself. At the very least, I want Tommy to feel safe, secure, and satisfied in the haven that, together, we will create.

I look beside me and literally marvel at his presence, His silky, lithe body is sprawled out across half the bed, tangled in a nest of the black satin sheets that we share. The collection of colorful tattoos spattered across his torso tell stories I have yet to hear; his heart is an open book that I cannot wait to read.

Last night, he and I spent hours exploring each other and getting to know the only parts of one another that were still untouched after ten years of being so close as friends. We talked. We kissed. We fucked. We cuddled. And, we fucked some more. In a way, our first night together passed so quickly; but yet, there was – there is – plenty of time for us to repeat the process over and over again.

My body, my mind, and my soul are now his. Really, they have always been his, but our current reality means I no longer have to tip toe around the secret I had to keep for so long. My love for Tommy Joe will never have to go unspoken again.

I feel him stir slightly, and as I watch him shift, I can't help but smile. In a state of half-consciousness, Tommy is unbelievably adorable. He licks his lips. Once. Then, twice. And following a sweet sigh, his mouth settles into a soft pout that I find heartwarming and delicious all at the same time. I can't help but reach up and brush a lock of blonde hair away from his eyes. As I tuck it behind his ear, I can feel the warmth of his face respond immediately to my touch. Although he doesn't open his eyes, I watch his lips quirk into a small smile. 

His beautiful, pale arms reach for me, and I am only happy to oblige him. I scoot over to him and wrap my own around him, pulling his entire body into mine. He snuggles into my chest and lets out another satisfied sigh. His warm breath on my skin mirrors the heat I feel inside of me, and as I bury my nose in his blonde hair, I revel – again – at how perfectly he fits within my grasp.

I inhale deeply; his scent fills my nose. A little bit of my shampoo and a little bit of what is uniquely Tommy Joe. I am not at all surprised to feel my dick harden. It has been a common occurrence for the past 12 hours. But the moment he and I are currently in is so not sexual. Well, I suppose it is, a bit. But it's more about finding ourselves in the right moment in the right place at the right time. And as many places as I have been; as many cities as I have toured; as many spots on the global map as I have visited, there is not one place, anywhere – ever – that has meant as much as where I am right now. 

In my mind, this has been my happy place for so long. Now it is my Eden in the real world.

There were times in the past ten years when I wondered – really pondered – the possibility that true happiness would elude me for damn near the rest of my life. I don't know if I can handle the fact that I may never face that question again.

But I sure as fuck am willing to try.

 

TOMMY'S POV

When was, like, the last time I slept this fucking good? 

Of all the times I have laid next to Adam – spent the night in this room, in this bed – I spent more time laying awake wondering how he would react if I climbed on top of him than I did, like, actually sleeping. And more times than not, my morning wood was fueled more by pornographic dreams about him than just the normal tendencies of my body. God, how I wanted him.

Thank all the fucking stars in, like, the sky and the universe, that the few mornings I awoke with the gooey remnants of my fantasies puddling at my crotch were nights I actually had fallen asleep with all my clothes on. I don't think Adam ever noticed me slink off to the bathroom adjusting my pants as I walked.

Now? Never again.

I lick my lips once. Twice. And I realize my only fear now is not waking up with morning wood. I wonder if Adam will notice my attempt at a sexy pout.

The flutter of Adam's fingers on my forehead send a new wave of heat coursing through my veins. I can't help but smile. I reach out for the warm body next to me, and I am immediately surrounded by the essence of Adam.

I feel myself, like, sink into the contours of his body, and I press my face into the expanse of his muscular chest. God, it feels so fucking good to be up in his space. I just can't get over how something that I know is so goddamn right took me so fucking long to figure out.

But, I realize, the past has been the journey that has taken me to right here – right where I fucking belong. The depth of my thought pattern almost makes me laugh. When did I, like, become Plato or Socrates or some other goddamn philosopher?

All I really know is that this place – in Adam's bed, in Adam's house, in Adam's heart – has become my entire fucking world. Somehow it took all this time for our emotions to collide, but all that superfluous shit just doesn't matter anymore. We have our whole fucking lives ahead of us. 

So, what? It took us a decade of knowing each other to get to this point? 

We have many more decades to make it right. To make up for lost time. To bring our lives full circle. 

I have no expectations, no requirements, no demands for Adam. He could never give me another goddamn thing and I would still have everything I fucking need. Not a thing in this whole world is as important to me as this man who is holding me in his arms.

This is it. This is where I belong.

With him.  
Beside him.  
Inside of him and his heart.

I know I will not lose myself, but, fuck. He makes me me anyway. I don't really fucking care if they just call me Adam Lambert's guitarist. They can even refer to me as his boyfriend, his lover, his toy, for Christsakes. 

I already know what I am to him, and that is all that matters to me. I mean, don't get me wrong. There are so many things I want to be for him – the things he already is for me: a solid rock; an emotional foundation; a partner in anything and for everything I want to be and do; and, a powerful motherfucking force in life, period.

And this is only the beginning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Tommy reach their first milestone -- a month of being together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not an incredibly long addition, but just a beginning-of-the-week teaser for longer adventures to come!

Adam's POV

Has it really been a month already? I know the calendar says it has, but my heart and my mind still feel like everything is still so fucking new. I mean, I wake up everyday, and there he is, beside me. In OUR bed. I don't expect him to be gone, but sometimes, I can't really believe he is here. That he is mine. Not that I own him, but that I have him. That his heart, his love, and his life are now all intertwined with mine.

The last four weeks have just flown by. I know I can't stop the passing of time, but sometimes I wish I could just grab onto on of our moments and hold it in my grasp forever. Everyday has been beautiful. Even the most mundane things have been wonderful with Tommy Joe, Things I have dreaded in the past – simple everyday tasks like grocery shopping and doing laundry and picking up my drycleaning – have become part of OUR routine. And so, I find myself waking up every morning, thrilled at the prospect of what the day holds for us.

Tommy literally is the last thing I see before I go to sleep at night and the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning. Is there anyone else – anyfuckingwhere – that is half as lucky as me?

The booming bass of the club's vibrating sound system brings me out of my reverie. I realize my body is moving to the beat as I sit at our private table, nursing a very harsh cocktail. I smile to myself. It never hurts to know the bartender personally. Your drinks are always a lot more potent.

I scan the expanse of the club, not really looking for anything but absorbing everything I see. Tonight, the crowd is large, and the dance floor is one large mass of humanity. Colorful lasers cut their way through puffs of steam from the fog machine, and the flicker of the strobe light is a constant reminder of the pulsing beat that permeates the consciousness of everyone aware of their surroundings. Every so often, as I get lost in my thoughts, the constant flashing of the lights stirs up my defense mechanisms. I almost have to remind myself that the paparazzi are not here; it seems everyone is leaving us alone.

Anymore, a quiet night out is as priceless as a quiet night in. 

Despite the ridiculous number of people in the club, I can still manage to locate Tommy in the crowd. I'm not sure if it's his internal pull, his outer magnetism, or his spiky blonde hair, but somehow I can always find him. Tonight, he is on the dance floor, surrounded by our friends and a couple of random strangers who always seem to work their way in.

Among them is a cute blonde girl who is currently draped over one side of Tommy, whispering something in his ear. I watch him respond playfully and she giggles. A bit dramatically, as far as I am concerned. But who I am to talk? I am so NOT immune to Tommy's charm. He puts his arms around her waist and pulls her in for a teasing peck on the cheek. I suppose maybe it should bother me. I suppose maybe it does. Not in a jealous “is-he-going-to-cheat-on-me” kind of way, but more in an insecure “am-I-really-what-he-wants” kind of way.

I dismiss the thought and resolve to think about it later. Tonight is supposed to be all about having fun, and I am having fun. There will be another time and place for my melodrama. Or better yet, no fucking place at all. 

I wash what little insecurities I still have down with the last few gulps of my drink, I grab a fresh beer for Tommy and head out to the dance floor. The night is young, and there is so much to celebrate.

Tommy's POV

I never used to be much for going out; in fact, I usually preferred to spend a Friday or Saturday night, like, planted on the couch with a fucking six-pack and a joint. And while I still enjoy doing that from time to time, I've become a tad more social over the years. I guess being part of Adam's social circle has sort of, like, made it necessary for me to spend more time out of my shell than in it. 

Sometimes it can be a little annoying, but hell. I suppose my inclination to tune out humanity with my iPod from time to time must be as well. Being around Adam has taught me to compromise. And no, not in a bad way. He is just so goddamn fucking infectious that, even if you want to be left alone, you can't help but succumb to his ability to draw you in. And, I just always want to be around him. So, fucking whatever, okay?

Anyway, tonight turned out to be a lot of fun. And, yes. I even gave him the satisfaction by admitting as such. His audacity is so fucking self-righteous, but yet so cute at the same time. Bastard.

I am pretty sure that we both had too much to drink. As usual, of course. But, at least neither one of us had to, like, drive home or anything. It's pretty fucking cool to always have a designated driver when we need one. 

Yeah, so? I won't deny that there are times when I am really, really into the rock star lifestyle.

Too drunk to drive, but coherent enough to make it into the house and up the stairs into bed. Just don't ask me where the line of our clothes actually starts or what I took off first. 

I'm pretty sure we wrangled each other out of our pants before we were out of the foyer, but who fucking cares. All I know is that we are both, like, completely naked and in bed. I am cuddled up next to Adam, with my head on his chest, and he is running his fingers through my blonde locks. I push up into his touch. Fuck. It feels so fucking good.

I smile to myself as I think about the last month in my head. Has it really been a month? I swear sometimes it has been so much longer, but others, it feels like it was only yesterday that I listened to Adam pour out his feelings.

I'll be damned if I have ever been happier in, like, my whole fucking life. 

I feel safe. I feel loved. I feel empowered. And, I feel like I really matter.

I mean, shit. Nothing is ever perfect. Adam and I have had our disagreements. Like the time he got all fucking bent out of shape about some toothpaste smeared all over the bathroom counter. I mean, come on. Shit happens. And it was only toothpaste. It wasn't like I crapped on the living room rug or something. Of course, we worked it out, but now I am happy to have one of the guest bathrooms all to myself.

But regardless of our occasional differences in opinion, there is no where I would rather be or anyone I would rather be with. 

Like right now. With Adam. With my head on his bare chest. With his fingers playing with my hair. It's just so relaxing. I could fall asleep just like this. I feel my consciousness slipping away, but then his fingers still. 

I am just about to let myself go when I realize the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard just came out of his mouth.

“What did you just ask me?” I jibe, lifting my head up off of his body. 

Surely it wasn't the ridiculous question that I think just heard.

“Tommy,” he says, looking me in the eyes, “Are you happy? Are you sure this is what you really want?”

Well, the words are still the same as I thought I heard, but I still cannot even fathom why he is even speaking them. 

Jesus Christ. My heart is, like, coming out of my chest. Is he even serious? What does he even mean? Is he having second thoughts? Is he not feeling what I am? I am so not even ready for this.

The absurdity of the whole situation wakes me the fuck up.

I take no time to untangle myself from Adam's grip or the sheets. In a brief moment, I am sitting up and straddling his waist. I am facing him and staring deep into his eyes. He looks both sides of concerned.

Shit. I fucking hate that look. I inhale sharply.

“What do you mean?” I manage to say, trying to get some oxygen in my lungs. No matter what I do, there just doesn't seem to be enough air to fucking breathe.

I deduce the panic in my voice and the look on my face must indicate exactly how I feel inside – like I am going to hyperventilate and puke all over him at the same fucking time.

He attempts a smile and wraps his arms around my waist.

It so does not help.

“Do I make you happy,” he asks me again.

Apparently, I was born in the wrong fucking universe, because this bizarre barrage of questions is just not right.

“I want to know if you are happy” he continues. “With everything? With this lifestyle? This gay lifestyle with me? I saw you at the club, and I don't know if that was just for fun, or if there is something that you are missing.”

I listen to him practically choke on his words. Oh God, was that a sob? Really? Christ, he's not going to cry, is he?

I force myself to take a deep breath before I react like an idiot. This is analytical Adam. Stupid, fucking analytical Adam. Always thinking. Always planning. Always questioning. Always second guessing everything.

I smile, trying to soothe the intensity of the mood. But apparently, he takes it the wrong way, because his face crumples into an even more pitiful scout. I really do think he is going to cry.

So, I communicate the only way I really know how. The only way I know he can't possibly take the wrong way: I kiss him. 

Just a loving peck on the lips. A couple of them. In random succession.

I stop. Just for a brief moment, but I want to look at him.

When I do, I am relieved to see a different look on his face, but I am still not totally convinced he isn't going to fucking burst into tears.

“You think too much, Lambert,” I mumble before I grab a handful of his think black hair and begin kissing him again.

This time, I kiss him much harder. And I use my tongue. This is my vehement statement that is so not up for debate.

I guess he must get it, because soon he is kissing me back. Within seconds, it is hot and wet and needy. Before I come up for air, my cock is rock hard. And judging by the feel of what Adam is poking me with in the cleft of my ass, so is he.

I lean down to kiss again. Then, I reach behind me, looking for that perfect spot. 

You know, that little soft spot, underneath his balls. When I find it, I go to work. This is the first time that I've really felt the need and had the desire to take total control, and I am fucking loving it.

By the time I am done, there will be no more stupid questions for him to ask.

I am entirely aware of the exact moment he opens his eyes to look at me and his mouth to speak, but, before he even has a chance to spit out something else decisively ridiculous, I silence him with my own words:

“Adam, please. Just shut the fuck up.”

I ramp up the intensity of my rubbing. He begins to moan and arches up between my legs.

I give him one more quick kiss and teasingly lick his ear and dismount so I can begin working the same area being stimulated by my finger with my tongue.

I flick my tongue across his balls and take them into my mouth, sucking one and then the other. It is obvious I am driving him nuts, because he fists both hands in my hair and pulls just a little harder than most people like. 

It's a damn good thing I am not most people  
I lick around his balls once more for good measure before I sink my face deeper between his legs. I hear him moan softly and writhe slightly as I dip my tongue into his sweet ass. As I probe around the tight ring of muscle, I can tell he is slowly losing his composure.

“Oh shit, Tommy,” he says, trying to sit up. But then, he falls back with a “humph” and finally – fucking finally – just lets go to experience everything I have to offer.

I continue to assault him with my tongue, flicking, probing, and stabbing. The sounds spilling off his lips are fucking hot, and I attempt to do whatever I can to make them continue. In fact, I am so absorbed in what I am doing with my mouth, I think I subconciously move my hand from his hip to my own dick. 

I can hardly believe how turned on I am by the ecstasy that Adam is clearly experiencing. The slight pressure of my hand on my junk ramps up as I start jacking myself, and before I know it, I am coming all over myself in response to his moans and sighs.

As I shudder through my own orgasm, I continue licking and nibbling at him, finally raking the length of his very, very hard cock gently with my teeth. His shudder is delicious.

“Tommy,” he pants, “you're killing me.”

I want to continue to tease him, to keep him so close to the edge, but when he writhes closer to my face, I take enough pity on him to amp up the intensity.

I pull out of his grip and run my thumbs up the inside of his thighs while I envelop his cock with my mouth. I swallow him completely in one fluid motion, and in less than a second, his entire body convulses and his hot come is spilling down my eager throat. 

As he slowly relaxes into the bed, I hear him let out his breath. I give his softening dick one last kiss, and realize I have never felt so satisfied in sex.

As I climb back on top of Adam, he is still panting, but grinning from ear to ear. I look into those intense blue eyes that are now soft, grateful, and full of emotion.

I lean in to kiss him, and he swirls his tongue around in my mouth, obviously tasting himself. Damn him for making everything so utterly, fucking hot.

After another bout of soft, slow, deep, wet kissing, I finally open my mouth to speak. I reiterate those words I heard from him a month ago.

“I am in love with YOU,” I whisper.


	6. Six Months

TOMMY'S POV

I've never been a huge fan of calendars. I mean, it's not like I don't have my own system for keeping my shit straight, like when I have gigs with Monte, or when I'm supposed to jam with Isaac, or when Adam has some charity thing he wants me to go to, or when my mom is expecting me for dinner. I usually just put the info in my phone, and then that's, like, the end of it until it fucking happens. Period. 

Well, being under the same roof as Adam Lambert has made me see schedules from an entirely different perspective. I mean, holy crap. We have a calendar in every fucking room, and let me just tell you, he is fucking religious about this shit.

I remember early on in his career when he would go here and there and do this and fucking that whenever somebody so much as said the word; but over time, that has changed. He's a bit more in charge now. Probably comes with the territory of being a motherfucking superstar, I suppose, and wanting to have more control over your own damn life. And I can't blame him one bit. However, I could probably function just as well if we didn't have grocery day and trash day and dry-cleaning day and due dates and birthdates and expiration dates and Raja's schedule and Brad's schedule and Skingraft's schedule all mixed in with things I actually, like, fucking need to know.

As a result of all this ridiculous information, every calendar in the goddamn house looks like the screens at LAX, and you need a set of instructions and a fucking NASA decoder to even make sense of one day's worth of activity. 

But still, it works for Adam, so it works for me. Or at least I pretend it does. I usually just nod like a dumb motherfucker when he tells me he is adding something to one of the squares, and then I excuse myself to, like, another room and punch it into my phone if it sounds like something really important that I need to remember. I mean, hell. Shouldn't life become easier when you're a goddamn rockstar and not more complicated and shit?

So yeah. The realization that almost six fucking months have passed since Adam and I got our heads out of our asses is all kinds of profound. Sometimes I have to wonder, where does time really go?

 

ADAM'S POV

I will be the first to admit that I am a romantic at heart; I always have been. However, I am usually adamant about drawing the line at being just plain sappy. After all, there are already of plenty of mushy, sentimental bastards in the world, and I try not to be one of them. But I'll be damned straight to hell and back if I'm not a sucker for Tommy Joe. I didn't know it was possible to have a brooding teenage crush and passionate unconditional love for the same person all at once, but I am living proof that you can.

At times, Tommy makes my heart skip a beat, and there is no amount of playful kissing that makes my goofy grin or giddiness go away; and at others, he has me so strung out on passion and adoration that I can feel the entire earth move. Often, I am stupefied that the exact thing I spent decades searching for was right in front of my goddamn face, but now I thank every power in the universe on a daily basis that I opened up my eyes before I wasted any more of the little precious time that we have.

What else can I say? My heart is full.

I am honored and humbled that Tommy picked me out of the vast expanse of the proverbial sea. He tells me that he is the lucky one, but I constantly beg to differ. Just look into a mirror, Tommy Joe.

Anyway, we both bring so many things into this relationship, and somewhere in the middle, our similarities and our differences mix and mesh into something that just works.

For my need to control, there is Tommy's ability to go with the flow. For my desire to always live on the edge, there is his tendency to hold us back. When my head is up in the clouds, his feet are planted firmly on the ground. If there is something that I fail to see, he is there to show me the way.

In the short span of six months I have come to realize – even more than before – that he is my lifeline, my source of strength, my emotional foundation, and my window to the world. Surviving without him would be physically possible, but my existence would be diminished to subsistence only. My ability to breathe might keep me functioning, but there is no way in hell I would still be alive.

This stark realization is eye-opening and unsettling. I have tried to live my entire life without growing dependent on anyone or anything for my happiness; choosing instead to draw my satisfaction and inspiration from within. But I have willingly given more of myself to Tommy than I ever have to anyone else before.

If I could, I would spend every minute of every day with Tommy, basking in the normalcy of everyday life. But unfortunately, my real world doesn't allow for the regularity of anything, and so, there seem to be constant reminders that we are trying to fit our ten years of being stupidly oblivious into each and everyday. The result for me? Feeling like I don't have the time I desire – and seriously need – to just be with Tommy. 

Our latest CD has been out for just under a year, but there are still things I have to do – appearances and appointments and interviews and so much fucking press that it makes my head spin. 

I am desperate for a scenario in which I can devote all of my attention to our relationship: to concentrate on me and the man that I love; to be able to enjoy all of life's simple pleasures just because they exist; to marvel at the chaos instead of causing it; to delight in the insignificant because it is important to us; to discover what it is like to sleep until noon just because we are tired and what it's like to stay up until sunrise just because we are not; to make our plans according to what we want to do instead of what we can fit in; to sneak away to wherever we fucking want without having to let anyone know; to intentionally turn my phone off for days at a time.

It sounds so easy, but it's not. As a result, I have made yet another earth-shattering decision. One that will impact both my relationship with Tommy and my career. And I am so fucking ready. 

 

TOMMY'S POV

When Adam decides to have some people over, he, like, goes over the fucking top. It's kind of funny, really. He gets all Martha Stewart and shit, dragging out matching plates and glasses, and, like, place settings for the patio tables and centerpieces and paper lanterns, and who-the-fuck-knows what else. And that doesn't even count what goes into planning the menu. 

I am sitting at the kitchen table wrapping silverware – yes, wrapping silverware, fucking thank you very much – watching Adam scurry around with a platter full of steaks, mumbling about having enough marinade, when the phone rings. I barely have time to, like, process the fact that it is making noise and shit before Adam has emptied his hands, crossed the expanse of the kitchen in two strides, and grabbed the phone. It must be a call he is expecting. But why on the landline? No one ever calls on it. Weird.

“Hi Lane,” I hear him speak into the phone.

So, it's Lane. But, on a Saturday? Weirder still.

“Yes, Lane, I know,” I listen to him say. “That's why I called you first. And yes, the modification papers are already at the attorney's office. I'm supposed to meet him on Monday.”

Really? The attorney again? I wonder what's going on now, but Adam continues to be vague with this answers.

“I think so.” 

He pauses.

“Yes I'm sure. It's the best thing for me – for us – right now.”

He pauses again.

“I have thought about all of that, and I'm positive. Everyone will be well-taken care of; they won't have anything to worry about. Okay, I will see you in a bit.”

Wow. Lane is actually coming to the cookout too. Interesting.

I am just ready to open my mouth and inquire about his conversation, but Adam stops me before even one sound comes out of my mouth.

“Later, Tommy Joe.”

The tone of his voice and the look in his eyes are enough to keep me from pushing it. For now.

I watch him disappear out the back door with a platter of what-the-fuck-ever. I know for a fact that we will be eating leftovers for, like, at least a fucking week, because the piles of food on the kitchen counter will feed everyone twice over. Apparently, Adam found it necessary to buy the entire goddamn store just to feed two dozen people.

I finish the last of the silverware and follow him out onto the deck. The perfection of the warm California evening is like a feathery embrace to my face. I inhale deeply. The grill is already doing its dirty work, and it smells fucking amazing. For not being much of a force inside the kitchen, Adam has become a goddamn master at the grill. 

I gaze over at him and watch him fuss over whatever he slapped on there first. He looks so amazing just doing what he is doing – something that is so mundane and domestic, yet so fucking comfortable. Is it my sappy side or my unrealistic side that, like, suddenly pines for more moments like this? I shrug, dismissing the thought and replacing it with one that makes me contemplate something, like, far less complicated. Something along the lines of, What do I crave more? The man or his meat?

I smirk as I walk towards him, cradling the carefully-wrapped silverware.

“Where do you want these?” I ask Adam once I am within earshot.

He turns to give me a glance and a smile that makes my world tip on its axis. His eyes, like, rake over my armful of silverware rolls and his grin shows all kind of approval. I smile dopily.

“Wherever you want,” he flails his hand towards the tables with glee. He slaps my ass playfully and turns back to the grill.

Adam has the patio and the backyard, like, decked the fuck out. Even I am impressed. The tables are set perfectly with his crazy fucking, matching outdoor dishes, and his collection of citronella candles set the perfect mood for a sexy, sultry night of too much food and too much booze. The bar is stocked and the grill is full; I'm sure there's not an appetite in the house that will suffer – including my own.


	7. The Power of the Glamily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Tommy have spent six moths together. As a result, Adam makes another life-changing decision that will impact them both -- as well as everyone around them.

TOMMY'S POV

When Adam decides to have some people over, he, like, goes over the fucking top. It's kind of funny, really. He gets all Martha Stewart and shit, dragging out matching plates and glasses, and, like, place settings for the patio tables and centerpieces and paper lanterns, and who-the-fuck-knows what else. And that doesn't even count what goes into planning the menu. 

I am sitting at the kitchen table wrapping silverware – yes, wrapping silverware, fucking thank you very much – watching Adam scurry around with a platter full of steaks, mumbling about having enough marinade - when the phone rings. I barely have time to, like, process the fact that it is making noise and shit before Adam has emptied his hands, crossed the expanse of the kitchen in two strides, and grabbed the phone. It must be a call he is expecting. 

But on the landline? No one ever calls on it. Weird.

“Hi Lane,” I hear him speak into the phone.

So, it's Lane. But, on a Saturday? Weirder still.

“Yes, Lane, I know,” I listen to him say. “That's why I called you first. And yes, the modification papers are already at the attorney's office. I'm supposed to meet him on Monday.”

Really? The attorney? I wonder what's going on now, but Adam continues to be vague with this answers.

“I think so.” 

He pauses.

“Yes I'm sure. It's the best thing for me – for us – right now.”

He pauses again.

“I have thought about all of that, and I'm positive. Everyone will be well-taken care of; they won't have anything to worry about. Okay, I will see you in a bit.”

Wow. Lane is actually coming to the cookout too. Interesting.

I am just ready to open my mouth and inquire about his conversation, but Adam stops me before even one sound comes out of my mouth.

“Later, Tommy Joe.”

The tone of his voice and the look in his eyes are enough to keep me from pushing it. 

For now.

I watch him disappear out the back door with a platter of what-the-fuck-ever. I know for a fact that we will be eating leftovers for, like, at least a fucking week, because the piles of food on the kitchen counter will feed everyone twice over. Apparently, Adam found it necessary to buy the entire goddamn store just to feed two dozen people.

I finish the last of the silverware and follow him out onto the deck. The perfection of the warm California evening is like a feathery embrace to my face. I inhale deeply. The grill is already doing its dirty work, and it smells fucking amazing. For not being much of a force inside the kitchen, Adam has become a goddamn master at the grill. 

I gaze over at him and watch him fuss over whatever he slapped on there first. He looks so amazing just doing what he is doing – something that is so mundane and domestic, yet so fucking comfortable. Is it my sappy side or my unrealistic side that, like, suddenly pines for more moments like this? 

I shrug, dismissing the thought and replacing it with one that makes me contemplate something, like, far less complicated. Something along the lines of, What do I crave more? The man or his meat?

I smirk as I walk towards him, cradling the carefully-wrapped silverware.

“Where do you want these?” I ask Adam once I am within earshot.

He turns to give me a glance and a smile that makes my world tip on its axis. His eyes, like, rake over my armful of silverware rolls and his grin shows all kind of approval. I smile dopily.

“Wherever you want,” he flails his hand towards the tables with glee. He slaps my ass playfully and turns back to the grill.

Adam has the patio and the backyard, like, decked the fuck out. Even I am impressed. The tables are set perfectly with his crazy fucking, matching outdoor dishes, and his collection of citronella candles set the perfect mood for a sexy, sultry night of too much food and too much booze. The bar is stocked and the grill is full; I'm sure there's not an appetite in the house that will suffer – including my own.

 

ADAM'S POV

A quick glance around my backyard confirms what I already know – everyone that I love, have ever really loved – is currently scattered in chairs around my patio and deck, talking, laughing, drinking, and basking in the company of one another. I haven't felt this satisfied and so high on life in a very, very long time. I realize that I could get very used to evenings like this – spending more time with my friends and family than with producers or board room executives. 

I have spent weeks thinking this through – from every angle, every perspective, every best-case and worst-case scenario. I have considered the financial ramifications, the professional repercussions, and the contractual consequences. I have conversed with the label; consulted my attorney; and, communicated with every member of my management team. Now, all that is left is for me to inform the people that I care about the most – the ones whom this will really, really impact.

My eyes dart around, looking for Tommy, and I find him shooting the shit with Isaac and his wife. I watch them for a moment, and a swell of affection bubbles in my chest; I am still gazing at him when he finally looks up and catches my eye. His ensuing smile rocks my fucking world. I return his grin and cock my head slightly, beckoning him over. I feel the sudden need to kiss him senseless.

By the time he stalks over to where I am, I am out of my chair, and I meet him mid-stride with outstretched arms. He melts into my embrace and his lips are warm against my neck. I bury my face into his blonde hair and pull him close, allowing myself to be lost momentarily in our own private moment.

“Oh, Tommy Joe,” I whisper in his ear, “I love you so much.”

I lean down and brush my lips against his and nudge him to sit down in the chair I was just in. He sinks down into it, never unlocking our gaze. I know he is curious, and I can't blame him. He has no fucking clue how monumental this is going to be.

I take a deep breath and a step forward. I pour the last of the whiskey I am drinking into my mouth and let it trickle down my throat. 

Here goes nothing.

 

TOMMY'S POV

With a groan, I settle back in the chair. I am as absolutely as full as I figured I would be. And with several bottles of beer sloshing around in my stomach, I am feeling satisfied on a number of levels.

I guess I kinda like this domestic shit after all. 

Being with Adam and our parents and our friends, just feels right, you know? I wish we could have more time to just be together – me and him and them – time for, like, reconnecting and shit, among all the gigs and events and rehearsals and interviews and all the other crap that comes with, like, real life.

I think that's why the last six months have gone so goddamn fast – at least a lot fucking faster than I was prepared for. 

There is always something going on, especially for Adam. Sometimes I tag along just for the opportunity to be with him. I mean, yeah. We spend all the time we have together, but that doesn't mean we're together all the time. If I actually kept track, I would probably find out we're apart more than we aren't.

It's nights like these, though, the remind me just how lucky I am.

I kinda get the feeling tonight that Adam is a little distracted, but I have no fucking clue as to why. 

It hasn't seemed to affect his mood in a negative way, and I know he is having a good time, but I have caught him watching me several times tonight, so I can't help but wonder. And I am pretty fucking positive that his mysterious conversation with Lane this afternoon was so not a coincidence.

I am also pretty positive that I am about to be clued in. I know Adam didn't beckon me from across the yard just to give me quick kiss on the lips, and he just tossed the last of his whiskey down his throat with meaning. I guess I am glad I am sitting down, because as he opens his mouth to speak, he gives me a look that tells me I just may not be prepared.

I watch tentatively as everyone seems to get quiet on cue. 

He seems to wrestle with the silence for a moment. It both worries me and amuses me. For someone who can command a stage and, like, take control of an entire fucking arena, Adam sure can pick the stupidest times to clam the fuck up.

“I want to thank everyone for coming,” I listen to him start.

He shakes his head and stops.

The momentary silence is not comfortable.

If I had any idea, like, what he was trying to communicate, I would get up and speak for him. 

But, unfortunately, I am as clueless as the other 28 people that are staring at him. I decide to slide off my chair, slink up behind him, and snake my arms around his waist. He melts into my embrace, and his demeanor, like, changes immediately.

“Tommy Joe,” he whispers, lacing his fingers with mine.

I bury my face into the crook of his back. He begins to talk again. This time, he, like, seems to know what he wants to say. 

“Tommy Joe,” he repeats, louder so everyone can hear, “and the rest of you here tonight, mean more to me than anything else in the world. The last ten years of my success would not have been possible – and definitely unimaginable – if every single one of you had not believed in me, supported me, and stuck by me through every phase of my career. And, for the longest time, I thought that would be enough. But, the last six months have really changed my mind.”

I'm listening, intent as fuck. It's obvious our little six-month milestone has brought something on.

“I've spent so much of my career trying to be everything to everyone – a rock god to my fans; a machine for the label; a golden ticket for the investors; a reckoning force for the industry. Unfortunately, through this process, I think I have lost a little bit of myself. And now, I've come to a point in my life where I want to be something else – something else entirely. I want to be a son, and a friend, and a brother, and a lover.”

As I hear the last few words, Adam is turning around in my embrace to face me. His hands come up to cup my face and I gaze into his eyes.

Adam continues to talk so everyone can hear. 

“There just isn't enough time for everything I am committed to,” I hear him say, “and the things that are suffering the most are the things that are closest to my heart. I have given this a lot of thought. Probably more than most people would give me credit for. I intended to tell you this sooner, but I just needed the reassurance that all of you were going to be well-taken care of even if my own focus changed.”

I must be clueless or just really fucking dumb, because Adam is not really making much sense – like, no fucking sense at all. I figure maybe I have had way to much beer, so my brain is, like, offline and shit, but one gaze at everyone else, and I know it isn't just me. 

In fact, the only person who appears to have even half a fucking clue is Lane. What the hell is that about?

I exchange a short glance with her, and some sort of understanding shines in her eyes. I watch her get up, walk over to us, and whisper something in Adam's ear. He nods and a look of sheer relief washes over his face.

Fuck me if this isn't Conspiracy-Between-Adam-and-Lane day. I don't recall seeing THAT on the fucking calendar. 

I could be mad to be out of the loop, but I'm not. It's actually kind of amusing to see the two of them so in sync.

I let Adam lead me back to his chair but almost trip over myself when he pulls me down into his lap. The apparent seriousness of the moment makes it less funny that it is, but no one seems to notice, anyway. Graceful, I am not.

Lane is, like, the center of attention now, and she picks up exactly where Adam left off. There are words coming out of her mouth about letters and lawyers and letdowns and lovers and time off and taking off and....

Wait. What?!?

I must not have heard that quite right.I am staring at Lane now and, like, really trying to listen. Before, maybe I was just watching her lips move. But as I tune everything and everyone completely out, I find that she is still talking about the same thing. I look to Adam, who is beaming from ear to ear.

Holy fucking Christ. 

I tackle Adam's lips with my own, licking my way into his mouth. Our tongues do a familiar dance, and soon, both of my hands are fisted in his hair. I soak in his familiar taste and savor the warmth of his hands on my chin. Our kiss is wet and sloppy and so fucking wonderful, and I am momentarily oblivious that Lane just might be done talking. 

Luckily, a catcall from Isaac – or maybe Monte – or whothefuckever reaches my ears before my burgeoning moans reach anyone else's.

I press my forehead to Adam's. 

“I fucking love you so much,” I say with the goofiest grin on my face. “It's almost ridiculous.”

“I love you too, Tommy, and it's anything BUT ridiculous.”

 

ADAM'S POV

If I didn't know before, I certainly know it now: I have surrounded myself with the most amazing people in the world. 

Of course, I was already well aware of this, but it never hurts to be reminded of how fucking wonderful your friends and family really are. And the fact that one of those very individuals owns my heart? Yeah. That makes me one lucky bastard.

It's not that I was expecting resistance from any of them when I announced my intention to step out of the spotlight for a year, but I had already braced myself for some sort of reaction. Resentment? Possibly. Shock? Maybe. Indecision? Definitely. 

Unconditional support for something I still consider a little self-serving? Absolutely not.

And they're happy for me. Most of them depend on me for their paycheck, and yet, they act like my break from the industry is the most prolific thing I have thought of in years.

After Lane finished explaining my intentions in a much more coherent fashion than I had been able to on my own, I thought there might be questions. About longevity. About prosperity. About the band's musical future. About financial security. 

I was concerned about THEM, but they were worried about ME.

How is it even possible that everyone in my life that I would be nothing without is more concerned about my well-being than they are about their own? Their commitment to me takes my breath away, and I love each and every one of them more than any accomplishment on my musical resume. More than number one hits and sold-out tours. More than platinum record sales and industry awards. More than music itself.

Who picked me to deserve such amazing people in my life?

Isaac had been the first to speak after Lane. He stood up with his glass and toasted – fucking toasted – to my happiness and my future with Tommy. Neil followed suit. My goddamn little brother, who has been such a consistent and committed force in my life, thanked me for the opportunities I have given him. What the actual fuck? And then Monte. By the time he started in, my grateful tears of reverence were already streaming down my face. I know Tommy was sitting on my lap, but I swear to God he was holding me up.

Eventually, the well wishes morphed into conversations about what the immediate future held for everyone else, and before I really knew it, our little soiree had kicked into high gear once again. Over time, the celebration moved from the deck to the pool, and soon, more of us were in the water than out. But as the night wore on, I welcomed one graceful exit after another. Although tonight was all about my glamily, I was really looking forward to getting Tommy all to myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own. I try very, very hard to edit and re-edit before I post a chapter. I am a bit anal about that. However, if there is anyone who has the time and interest to be a beta, I would certainly take them up on it!


	8. Love is in the Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Tommy enjoy some intimate time together following their cookout and Adam's big announcement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pure smut. Love it or leave it.

TOMMY'S POV

It's a fucking fact of life that California weather, like, never cooperates, you know? It's either too hot or too cloudy or too windy or too humid or some shit like that. 

But for some reason – some perfect, storybook, fucked-up fairytale sort-of reason – we got lucky tonight. Even the consistent coat of smog that always blankets the sky has eased up a little for us, and that's all kinds of amazing.

It seems like hours ago that everyone left, although it's probably only been, like, 15 minutes. I am buzzed on beer and high on Adam, and I'm not sure which one of those is contributing more to the warm, tingly feeling on my skin and in my belly.

I lean back against his chest and sigh contentedly.

We are sprawled out in one of the deck chairs beside the pool, soaking up the moonlight, and like, admiring the stars and shit. I am settled between Adam's legs, which is both relaxing and distracting, and as his hands start rubbing my lower back underneath my tshirt, I am leaning towards the latter.

The night air is humid and warm, but goosebumps cascade over my skin anyway. Adam's roaming hands are hot, searing my body wherever they touch, and I let myself get lost in the sensation of his caress. I feel his fingers snake around my upper arms and brush both of my nipples. My breath hitches.

Before I really have a chance to recover, he is grasping both, pinching and twisting them in his fingers. Then, when he tugs at my nipple rings, I gasp out loud, and my dick goes from half-hard and probably interested to fully erect and yes-right-the-fuck-now.

“Oh God, Adam,” I moan, adjusting my junk in my shorts. Christ, I am so fucking hard.

“Hands on the armrests, Tommy Joe,” Adam whispers into the nape of my neck, before licking a stripe from the neckline of my shirt to the sensitive part of the skin right beyond my ear. “And don't move them until I tell you to.”

I do as he asks, but I throw in a groan for good measure. It doesn't phase him, like, at all though, and I know I am in for some sweet torture. He doesn't keep me guessing.

“Oh Tommy, baby,” he purrs. “I am going to show you what it can be like now that we have all the time in the world.”

He is toying with the band of my swim trunks.

“Adam, please,” I whisper, arching my hips up slightly, looking for more from his hands.

I need the pressure. The friction. Something. So fucking bad.

His hands disappear quickly into the easy access of my trunks, and the heat in my groin flares unbearably as he grabs my balls, fondling them and kneading them as I struggle just to breathe. 

I am too incoherent to form words, so a random succession of loud moans tumble out of my mouth instead.

“Mmmmmmm, Tommy,” I feel Adam mouth against my neck, as he pulls my dick completely out of my shorts.

I already know he likes me being vocal when it comes to sex, but the sounds I am making right now are so not part of a forced pre-coital ritual. He literally is driving me out of my fucking mind, and he fucking knows it too.

“So hard for me, Tommy,” he murmurs, tracing up one side of my dick and down the other.

“Adam,” I cry, bucking up again. “Adam, please.”

My please fall on deaf ears.

“Hush, Tommy,” I hear the wicked grin in Adam's voice. “We have all night, baby, and I am going to tease this sweet cock of yours long and slow. Until you can't take it any more. By the time I am done with you, you will be begging me to let you come.”

An actual whimper erupts from my throat, and as much as I try and swallow it back down, it spills off my lips anyway. 

It's obvious my desperation does little more than inspire Adam to torment me further, because he begins to jack me off at a languid pace that is enough to make me want to explode but not near enough to do anything more than increase the intense pressure building in my balls.

Somewhere amidst the onslaught of sensations going on below my waist, I am conscious that Adam has an urgent need of his own. 

It is pressing – in earnest – into the cleft of my ass. Using the armrests as leverage, I push as much of me as I can back onto his crotch. His delicious gasp is a momentary distraction for me and a millisecond of temporary relief.

He retaliates in earnest, speeding up his pace with one hand and clamping down at the base of my balls with the other. This only makes the aching in my groin worse as his tight grip serves as a constricting cock ring, rendering my ability to get off practically useless.

This is a battle that I am just not going to win, and I am so far past the point of needing to blow my load, that I am not opposed to begging. Not at all.

“Please, Adam,” I manage to eek out. 

His nonchalance is unappreciated.

“Please, what, Glitterbaby?” he quips innocently as he fingers my slit and smears pre-come around the head of my dick.

“Fuck, Adam,” I moan. “It feels good.”

He begins jerking me in earnest again.

“Of course it does, baby,” he chides. “It's supposed to.”

My hands are white from the death grip I have on the chair handles, and I swear to fucking God I am slowly losing my composure and control. I also know that Adam is enjoying every second of my breakdown.

“I need to come, Adam,” I beg again. “Please.”

I am so fucking turned on right now that I am light-headed, and my balls are wound up so tight they are throbbing with the need to release. Like, how much more do I have to take?

As always, Adam has other ideas.

After giving my dick a couple of playful tugs, he begins palming the tip, rubbing around the additional bubbles of pre-come that have escaped.

I am panting now; my cock is twitching sporadically in response to Adam's every touch. He is driving me further and further into a state of complete desperation.

“You're doing so good baby,” Adam purrs in my ear. “You are so fucking hard and you feel so good in my hands.”

“Adam, please. Please,” I stammer. “Please.”

I cannot resist the urge to buck up into his hands. It feels good – so fucking good. But he is relentless in his teasing. 

I am delirious with the need to come, and I swear I might fucking pass out. 

My cockhead is swollen and so sensitive to Adam's grip, and each prolonged slide of his hand up and down is driving me out of my fucking mind. And when he adds a fancy twist to the drag and begins pumping me forcefully, my whole body shudders and I cry out his name.

“Oh my God, Adam,” I moan loudly, barely conscious of my voice piercing the darkness of the yard. “Oh fuck. Fuck. Please don't stop.”  
“I know you need it baby,” Adam's wrecked, ragged voice groans in my ear. “I know you need it so bad, so come for me. Come all over me, Tommy Joe.”

I don't know what hits me first – the ringing in my ears or the explosion that starts in my balls and works its way up my shaft. All I know is that it is absolutely amazing.

“Fuck, yeah,” I growl, as I erupt all over my stomach, Adam's hand, and the chair. The teasing makes my orgasm that much more intense, and squirt after squirt continues to blanket us both. “Fuck. Fuck. Feels so fucking good, Adam. Fuck.”

The aftershocks make me feel like I am flying; now I am light-headed for an entirely different reason. I shudder through the spasms of pleasure and then collapse, boneless, slumping back against Adam.

Even though I am not facing him, I can feel him smiling. He knows how good he just made me feel, and he knows I will let him do it again. And if I am lucky, that will be before the night is through.

 

ADAM'S POV

I didn't really anticipate that the night of blistering, passionate sex I had planned would start out here in the lounge chair beside the pool. But hey, I'm flexible.

A minute ago, I was teasing Tommy to the point of one of the most intense orgasms I have ever seen him have, and now he has settled himself between my legs and pulled down my shorts before I have even had a chance to consider whether or not kneeling on a beach towel is even comfortable for him. But once his little pink tongue flicks out to lick the droplets of pre-come off the tip of my dick, I'll be damned if it matters where he is sitting or where we even are.

For having spent much of his life receiving blowjobs instead of giving them, Tommy is ridiculously gifted at giving head. Like right now, he has barely even licked me, but thinking about his impending actions are enough to make my eyes roll back into my head and my dick lurch in his hands.

“Someones eager,” I hear his voice interrupt my thoughts.

I open my mouth to respond to his smirk, but another swirl of his tongue around the sensitive flesh at the tip of my shaft shuts me the fuck up.

“I know that look, Babyboy,” he continues to coo. “You wanna fuck my face, don't you? Wanna slide that hard cock between my lips and shoot your hot come down my throat until I choke?”

“Wanna feel the warm, slick drag of my tongue on your balls, Adam? Want me to suck one of them – both of them – into my mouth? Wanna blow your load all over my face until it's dripping from my eyelashes and running down my cheek?”

Fuck blowing my load. At this point, he is blowing my mind.

“God, Tommy,” I writhe helplessly. “Your fucking, filthy mouth.”

And then he smirks. Again.  
I get it, okay? Now he is teasing me.

He buries his head between my legs, and I can feel more than see his tongue begin to assault my balls. 

His callused fingers replace his mouth, and I feel him lick slowly up my shaft from base to tip. I fist both of my hands in his hair, pushing him into my groin.

“Tommy, please. Suck it,” I moan greedily. “Suck my cock.”

My entire body shudders in pleasure and relief when I feel the wet heat of his mouth engulf every inch of my erection.

For someone so small, Tommy has an amazingly long throat, and he never hesitates to take me all the way down. In a matter of seconds, I am lost to the intoxicating sensation of his constricting throat muscles milking the end of my shaft. I watch him bob up and down with purpose, his pale cheeks hollowing out on every slick drag up.

His eyes are closed – in concentration or ecstasy, I'm not really sure. But then, I don't really care. All I can register in my hazy, lust-filled brain is the suction and the friction of Tommy's lips and tongue; the sloppy, eager sucking noises coming from his mouth; the bruising force of his hands pressed against my hips that I just can't seem to keep on chair.

“God, Tommy. Fuck.”

He responds by sucking harder, if that is even possible.

And then, when his right hand moves from my hip to my balls, I know it's almost over.

The heat starts in the base of my spine and my balls are throbbing in his grip. My entire body tightens up as I begin to let loose.

“Oh fuck, baby. Fuck. I'm gonna come.”

The first wave of my orgasm hits me with such an intensity that my hips jerk forward, slamming my cock into the back of Tommy's throat. But he is ready for me, and he swallows wave after wave of the hot liquid as it erupts into his mouth.

He continues to milk me long after the last drop is gone, and I am shuddering from the sensitivity when he finally pulls off with a satisfied pop.

“How about another six months?” he asks me with a grin and in such an adorable tone I practically giggle. 

“You're on,” I reply with a smile, pulling him up on top of me. “And then we'll talk about another six after that.”


End file.
